Chocolate House Treason: A Mystery of Queen Anne’s London

By David Fairer

Covent Garden, January 1708. Widow Trotter has big plans for her recently-inherited coffee house, not suspecting that within days her little kingdom will be caught up in a national drama involving scandal, conspiracy and murder...

Queen Anne’s new “Great Britain” is in crisis. The Queen is mired in a sexual scandal, spies are everywhere, and political disputes are bringing violence and division. The treasonous satirist “Bufo” is public enemy number one and the Ministry is determined to silence him. Drawn into a web of intrigue that reaches from the brothels of Drury Lane to the Court of St James’s, Mary Trotter and her young friends Tom and Will race against time to unravel the political plots, solve two murders, and prevent another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Aug 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781838599898

David Fairer

As Professor of Eighteenth-Century Literature at Leeds University, David Fairer has spent most of his life researching and writing about the early eighteenth century and bringing it to life for students. He’s published books on the period and has lectured regularly in Europe, the Far East, and the USA.

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Copyright © 2019 David Fairer

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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For Jane Stabler

Contents

*

The Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

The Epilogue

Characters

Historical Note

A Note on the Poetry

The Prologue

*

Kensington Palace, 28 January 1708

The swish of satin and creak of whalebone ceased. Two angry women faced each other across the wide drawing-room, their eyes locked in a single blazing stare. Each was transfixed. The old magnetism between them was still powerful, but now it was working as bitterness and distrust. Neither would relinquish her gaze, and so they stood motionless, held together by an invisible force – the Queen and her subject.

During the interview there had been a lot of tossing of heads and flicking of fans, but gradually their circling of the room had become slower and more wary – and now there was only silence.

The one detectable movement was a hand clutched around a necklace of pearls that hung generously over layers of lace and golden silk. The fingers pressed and rubbed them like a rosary, until suddenly the thread broke. Like tiny firecrackers popping and jumping on the parquet floor, the pearls slid in a cascade to freedom, running in every direction, slipping under the furniture, hurrying towards the door. One of them, as if it acknowledged a lost intimacy, began rolling slowly up to the other woman’s embroidered shoes, where it came to rest.

The figure looked down, but held her ground. Across the room those regal eyes were now red and glistening. The remaining loose pearls were being gripped with whitened knuckles, and the bosom pulsed quickly as the reluctant words finally came, almost sobbing:

‘I am still your poor, faithful Morley… You know this well enough!’

‘No! I see that my years of devotion are nothing to you. All my care for your interest is to be set at nought!’

‘I am more tenderly yours than I can express…’

‘Ha! You say so – but you talk just as you write – professions of love only! You are distant and stubborn, and every day you grow colder. That deceitful interloper has wound herself into your affections. She plays with you – but you refuse to see it!’

The other figure held her pearly fist resolutely to her breast, and straightened her back.

‘How dare you talk so? There was a time when you spoke kindly to me. My beloved Freeman always had licence to tell me her mind freely. But now all I have is your contempt. You presume too much on our friendship!’

‘No, no – you are no more the friend…’

Mrs Freeman’s flaxen head bowed for an instant – it was a cursory gesture –

‘… You have dwindled to a Queen!’

In the silence, Mrs Morley suddenly became the statuesque monarch. She raised her head – very like the profile on her new coinage – and delivered a magisterial reply.

‘Yes, God be praised, Queen of Great Britain. At last the nation is united – and I embody that unity. Let it not be forgotten! I am its nursing mother… though alas, it is all I can nurse now…’

The majestic fist rose and hung in the air, before the fingers released their grip and let the five remaining pearls slip away. They made a last pathetic stuttering sound on the floor, and the grand room seemed suddenly empty and cold.

*

Punch’s Theatre, Covent Garden, 28 January 1708

Meanwhile, a couple of miles away in a large well-appointed room in the south-eastern corner of Covent Garden’s piazza, a theatrical entertainment was in progress. Here a wooden figure hardly three feet high, wearing a gold-painted crown and a sweeping velvet robe studded with artificial pearls, was strutting across a diminutive stage. In one hand the puppet-queen held an exotic fruit, and in the other a metal rod which she beat against her breast. The voice was high-pitched and distorted to a whine.

‘Aaaah! Mrs Church-ill!’

After a moment of shocked silence, a ripple of laughter swept through the audience. Glances betrayed embarrassed amusement, and paper fans trembled in outraged delight. This was disgraceful – unheard of – treasonable!

‘Alas! Alack!’ the little figure wailed, ‘what will become of meeee… ? How can I bear your scorn? I swear yoooo shall always be my favourite! – of all the Duchesses in London, yoooo are my precious jewel! My Marlborough! My sceptre! My… pineapple!’

The royal manikin struck the tin sceptre against its head, while the other hand lifted up a miniature fruit instead of the orb of state. The audience gasped at the blasphemy. On the far side of the stage, in an answering gesture, the second female marionette, tiara’d like a duchess, raised a hinged arm and shook it angrily.

‘But you have betraiiied me, Mrs Stuart! Must you toy with my affections? Do you think me made of wood?… Am I nothing to you… but a puppet??’

At the Seven Stars in Covent Garden, Punch’s Theatre was putting on a fine show. The place was packed with discerning men of the Town, coffee-house wits, and a good crowd of the female bon ton, who were enjoying a satirical afterpiece featuring the latest conflict in the political world.

Suddenly from offstage a wheezing voice was heard.

‘Your Majessssssty!! My preciousss Anna! My Ssssaint! Do not let that vicioussss… Duchessss… distresssssss you!!’

To delighted applause, a heavily panting Mr Punch pranced onto the stage, led by his protuberant belly, his large nose dipping down toward the big ruff that circled his neck. A golden chain dangled from his shoulders and in his hand he carried, instead of his usual heavy stick, a white staff of office… It was Robert Harley in burlesque!

At once, the figure in the Duchess’s tiara cried out in terror: ‘Ah! Harley is come! Help! Help! Where is the Junto when I need them??’ Her jaw bounced from its invisible wire. ‘Where is my beloved Sunderland? Help me! Help me!’

From the other side of the stage, a second be-robed figure with a rabbit-fur collar and a similar white wand entered, its head carved into the likeness of the Earl of Sunderland. A few moments later, the wooden Harley and the wooden Sunderland, the nation’s two Secretaries of State, were indulging in energetic sword-play, their white staffs cracking against each other.

While the two puppet politicians fought in heroic fashion, the two women shook one another’s heads until the tiara and the crown both rattled to the ground. The duels then became one as each pair struck out at the other. The Queen and Harley yelled Down with the Whigs! and The Junto to the Devil! while the Duchess and Sunderland screamed To hell with the Tories! and Jacobites to the Pit! Much fun was being had on both sides, and very soon the polite audience began to mimic their insults. Within the room, amused murmurs grew into loud derision, and treasonous cries began to echo round the walls.

Thursday

29 January 1708

Chapter One

*

It is often said that a widow of substance can do pretty well anything she likes, and certainly Mary Trotter was beginning to settle into the idea quite happily. She was recently a widow, and fairly substantial, and as the thought of her new-found independence struck her she leaned over the coffee-house bar, spread her hands, squared her shoulders and took a deep, satisfying breath.

Over to her left a crackling sound came from the fireplace, the cavernous heart of the coffee-room, where a large cauldron was simmering contentedly above the flames. Ranged along the edge of the grate was a miniature parade of pots and jugs, their spouts gesturing elegantly, all eager to do their duty. In front of her, around the long oak tables were huddled a few assorted hats and wigs, with sometimes a face visible beneath, and from time to time they nodded or shook, or dipped behind a paper. A general hum of conversation rose and fell, cut suddenly by a mocking laugh before subsiding again into a lively buzz.

The room was heady with bitter-sweet fumes of coffee, tea and chocolate, flavoured with a mingled glow of orange and cinnamon. Each intake of breath brought a hint of exotic spices edged with pungent exhalations of tobacco. The atmosphere was, she thought, an oddly masculine brew. It was both comforting and acerbic. On this freezing winter morning the coffee house was a welcome refuge, but also a place where news and ideas might break the peace at any moment and where combative minds could assert themselves.

Widow Trotter allowed her eyes to close as she inhaled the wonderful concoction. But what began as a sigh of pleasure ended with a slight shudder. She felt proud and delighted, yes, but also a little apprehensive of how this new challenge would work out. All the responsibilities of the Good Fellowship Coffee House were now hers. It was like being captain of a ship: this place, for good or ill, was her little kingdom.

‘Split me, widow!’

The voice, a gruff whisper, was near, and her opening eyes took a moment to focus themselves. A face swung towards hers. There was a disconcerting twinkle in its look and acrid mundungus on the breath.

‘Day-dreaming of your new-found riches, my lady? Do you feel the Peruvian ore running through your fingers?’

A rough hand lifted itself before her nose with surprising delicacy, the splayed fingers rippling as if touching magic dust.

‘Ah, Mr Cobb, I see only dirt and drudgery. Tables to be cleaned, dishes to be washed, the fire to be tended…’

‘But widow, widow – what a musical sound that is! – you need slave no more. The house is in good order and your friends continue in your interest. Now we are yours to command. We are your knights and you are our chatelaine.’

The constable liked to think he had a polite way with words.

‘Elias Cobb, you are becoming dangerously poetical.’

‘But your fancy must surely give birth to new ambitions? Let me be the man-midwife to your thoughts!’

The prospect was an uncomfortable one. Widow Trotter changed her ground and spoke quietly to him.

‘My thoughts, Mr Cobb, are on why the Watch are here at such an early hour…’

She nodded in the direction of a table in the far corner where two partly-muffled figures sat quietly, trying not to look across the room toward her.

‘… The evening is the time for you and your friends to gather. Is there some business afoot?’

He brought his face close to hers, and spoke low.

‘These are uneasy times, Molly. You are an astute woman and have sniffed us out!’ And even closer: ‘We have a little matter to settle this morning. Pray don’t be alarmed. It will be achieved smartly – and without violence, I assure you. We shall execute our task sans peur et sans reproche.’

The constable’s Covent Garden French had its own unique charm. With a slight nod of the head he turned to face the company. His voice was suddenly loud and jovial.

‘Ah widow! Your virtues commend you. This house is in the best of hands!’

There was a murmur of assent from the table nearby, and two dishes and one glass were raised in her honour.

‘Peter!’ Widow Trotter called out, catching the mood. Her young coffee-boy, smart in his green livery and apron, a little brown bob-wig on his head, stood to attention. ‘Supply all my friends! Let each in the room have his order – at the house’s expense. On this freezing day you all need warmth and comfort. Mr Trotter may be here no longer, but I assure you his spirit of conviviality will still preside!’

A cheer welled up. One of the tables resounded to a beaten hand. A snatch of song emerged. Somewhere a glass shattered. Peter Simco the coffee-boy stood rooted to the spot. Uncertain where to turn, his face twisted round more quickly than his wig, leaving it tilted precariously.

‘Anon, gentlemen! In order please!’

The room was suddenly busy, and a smiling Elias Cobb made his way back to the far corner. He settled into the seat by his two partners, facing the room, his eyes directed away from the coffee-house door but aware of its location.

At another table a dark-haired young man, free of the encumbrance of a wig, was looking at the door repeatedly and with some apprehension. He nursed an earthenware dish of coffee, and in his right hand a sheaf of papers was folded discreetly before being slipped down into a deep side pocket of his coat. From the other pocket a watch emerged, not for the first time, and was consulted with a slight furrowing of the brow. He moved a pewter plate to one side, now wiped clean of its toasted cheese. Again the doorway was checked. He toyed with a spoon.

Within range of his arm was a much-thumbed copy of The Daily Courant and he reached over for it half-heartedly, knowing too well what to expect. There would be nothing about politics: no mention of the latest drama in parliament; not a whisper about the poisonous relations between Queen Anne and the great lords of the Whig ‘Junto’ who challenged her power; not a hint of the party strife that was bidding to pull the new nation apart. Indeed there was utter silence on anything in this mighty metropolis – and certainly no news from elsewhere in the land. The young man gave an audible sigh as he scanned the page.

No, on this cold January morning the newspaper delivered into this little corner of Covent Garden the freshest reports (merely two weeks old) from Naples, Leghorn, Budapest and Vienna. Here were the movements of foreign ships and regiments, the parading of princes and dukes – an endless slow-motion story of naval preparations, troop levies, commissions and diplomatic manoeuvrings. He groaned inwardly at the pompous folly of it all. This was European conflict as a distant chess-game, played out across the continent while everybody waited for the spring when the big fighting would resume. Nations politely at war! And the patrons of the Good Fellowship could keep track of exactly how the European envoys and generals were comporting themselves. He could almost see the stars glinting on their uniforms… But what of Westminster and the seat of government a mere mile and a half away?… Nothing! That was a world apart. It might have been the Indies.

The young man was sinking into an irritable mood when his face suddenly broke into a smile: in the far column of the paper, as if in wicked parody, was an advertisement for the Alexipharmicon, a remarkable panacea for ills of every kind – ‘The greatest Antidote in the World,’ it read, ‘against all poisonous and malignant Diseases whatsoever, the most infallible Medicine in the Universe.’ The potion was to be had exclusively from Mr Spooner at the Golden Half Moon in Goodman’s Fields. It was expensive – half a crown a bottle – but how very much cheaper than war!

He threw the paper down. Beyond it lurked what was clearly a badly-printed pamphlet. The title-page was packed with bold capitals proclaiming A Modest Vindication of the Present Ministry, Evincing That We are not in such a Desperate Condition as has been Lately Insinuated. He reached across for it casually, anticipating a few minutes of amusement. But as he picked it up he saw something underneath. It was a sheet of paper covered in writing – verses by the look of them. Many manuscripts found their way into that room, and this one may have been handed round or possibly left there by an aspiring wit.

The single page was written in a flowing hand, but strangely the lines were untitled and unsigned. The young man read them through and liked what he saw: unlike many of the squibs that landed on these tables, this one had some elegance. It was a satiric sketch, but graceful in manner. It didn’t attack its victim but amusingly patronised him:

He practised vices of the lighter sort,

Coffee and tea, tobacco, wit, and port…

He gave another glance at the door as it opened; but the rush of cold air brought in a figure he didn’t recognise.

In disappointment he put the manuscript down and took up the pamphlet again, and began leafing through it. The ‘Preface’ declared that A Modest Vindication was ‘humbly submitted to the Judgment of all Impartial men’ – and indeed its humility was embarrassing. He couldn’t help but read on, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Flattery I know is nauseous,’ the author declared, ‘and therefore I shall not undertake the difficult task of enumerating the manifold blessings with which gracious God has been pleased to crown the administration of a pious and grateful Queen, committed to the care of an able and a faithful Ministry…’ There was much more of this pretentious stuff. He laughed to himself. In such an age who could not be a satirist!

He wearily turned the pages. The hack was working at full stretch, throwing predictable phrases into the pot and stirring them. But on page twelve things suddenly changed. He noticed a thin, folded sheet of paper squeezed in between the leaves. He extracted it and flicked it open. These were more manuscript verses, but their style could not have been more different. This poem was signed ‘Bufo,’ and the lines were written closely on both sides in a small, spiky hand, incised in deep black ink:

Ah H - - - - - s! Satan’s double-dealing imp,

Foul Wharton’s cully, mighty Somers’ pimp,

In Spencer’s service like a rat serves fleas,

Sign of our body politick’s disease;

Whore of the Junto…

The great Whig lords! – and under their own names!

As he read the dangerous words he felt another rush of chilly air. Two men entered, visibly shivering. They were both wigless: one was older, plainly dressed and with a large leather wallet hanging from his shoulder – clearly a man of business – and the other was a tall and willowy youth, the familiar face he’d been looking for. He beckoned to them, and without reading any further instinctively pocketed the piece of paper. At the corner table, the three figures conversing in hushed tones shifted slightly but remained in their seats, discreetly noting the performance.

The pair came over towards him, and he rose to greet the visitors. The older man chose his ground in deliberate fashion while the younger turned and gave a sweep of the arm.

‘This, Sir, is my friend, Mr Thomas Bristowe.’

At this introduction Tom inclined his head slightly as the figure in a plain brown suit appraised him with a critical eye. John Morphew, publisher, was a man of shrewd instantaneous judgments:

‘Ah yes, our lovesick Celadon. How does your heartless Delia, Mr Bristowe? Still unresponsive to your tim’rous flame?’

Tom winced and began to redden. The Myrtle Garland; or, Celadon’s Plea, his single venture into print, had been an auspicious début. The pastoral lyric was taken up by the Town, set to music and performed at Spring Gardens and in polite drawing rooms; but now the poem was being hawked in a satirical parody by the street balladeers. His graceful opening, ‘The passing wind receives my sigh; / I know that my sweet Delia’s nigh,’ had become ‘The passing wind, my mighty fart, / Can never reach sweet Delia’s heart.’ And it got much worse.

‘Be assured Mr Morphew, Tom has put those lines behind him!’

His friend laughed at his own wit. Tom looked at him murderously. Will would die for this.

‘Have no fear, Mr Bristowe, Mr Lundy tells me you have abandoned the lyric strain and have now turned to satire?’

They sat down and he beckoned the coffee-boy.

‘Yes indeed, Sir. I have the piece in my pocket. Will told me you might wish to see it. It is substantial – in imitation of Juvenal.’

John Morphew’s eyes narrowed slightly.

‘A dangerous model in these times, Mr Bristowe – though perhaps a welcome relief from the polite Horace, I’ll grant you. But not too much savage indignation I hope?’

Tom Bristowe looked momentarily dark and serious.

‘The Roman poet is indignant only about human nature and its self-delusions.’

‘From that I take it you are a young man entirely free of them?’ said the publisher in a tone of genial amusement.

‘I have my share, no doubt – and especially at this moment.’ He glanced ruefully at Will.

‘Tom wants to set the world to rights. But that is our youthful prerogative is it not, Mr Morphew?’

‘Ah, Mr Lundy: prerogative is a very troublesome word – best steer clear of it. But I shall be happy to take a look at your poem, Mr Bristowe. I trust there’s nothing in it that will deliver you to the pillory? You will recall how poor Joseph Browne has suffered that fate for just eighteen injudicious lines. The Country Parson’s Honest Advice turned out to be too honest – another word we must be careful of!’

From her station behind the bar Widow Trotter watched the group with particular interest. They were now chatting easily. The tall young man’s hands were expressively active, and Tom’s face was animated, his melancholy brow noticeably lifted. She liked her handsome new lodger – a welcome addition to the place – and it was good to see him bringing his friends here. She had begun thinking that under her new regime she would try to draw in a set of younger faces and some new ideas with them. The old regulars were dear to her, as they had been to her late husband, but the place had become predictable. The ‘coffee-house politicians’ occupied their favourite long table and met each day to set the usual antagonisms in motion – a predictable parody-warfare of Whig and Tory.

Until the barrel of prunes put an end to him, Henry Trotter had run the Good Fellowship Coffee House like his club. Her husband had been a genial soul: he had greeted all comers with an open countenance and was happiest playing the guest himself, sitting down with friends and forming his own circle. For thirteen years the ‘Good Fellowship’ – the name was its character – had stood for conviviality and good humour, both of them welcome things.

But this was a new age. Now the name seemed to her distinctly outmoded. Not only that, but it lacked urban style. She searched for the right word: it was too naive?… too obvious?… jejune?… If only there was a nice monosyllable that would catch the full idea. It was just a bit ------’ (perhaps she should invent a word for the purpose?). She was feeling restless. The place needed to have more of that confident mixture of elegance and adventure which she could sense all around her in London. The capital city of the new nation was freshly-minted and humming with life, and so too – she couldn’t help but think – was ‘Widow’ Trotter with her own new title that signalled a degree of power and independence. She thought of the future, and part of her craved an adventure of her own – something that would break the coffee house’s comfortable routine and catch the current of the times…

An inner voice was beginning to whisper be careful what you wish for, when her musings were cut short. She noticed the two watchmen slipping out of the door, and Tom was signalling to the bar in excitement: there was evidently good news, which he would share with her in a moment. At the table, the publisher was placing Tom’s sheaf of papers in his wallet and shaking hands – a good sign! The two friends thanked him, and the man took his leave, acknowledging her with a polite nod before the door closed. Across the room Elias Cobb was also rising from his seat.

Tom and Will looked at each other for a second in silence, before Will gave a whoop of glee and aimed a happy punch at his friend’s shoulder.

‘I can see it now, Tom! LONDON: Printed for John Morphew near Stationers-Hall. In grand folio, perhaps – and with handsome ornaments?’

Tom risked a smile and took a deep breath.

‘But will I ever be anything other than Celadon? No-one will let me forget it.’

‘Trust me, I prophesy that after thirty years the joke will have worn thin, and the memory fade. You shall be seated here, a magisterial fifty-year-old in a large armchair, holding court to your admirers. Whatever the fashion for wigs, yours will be bigger and shinier and more curled than anyone’s. And with a laurel wreath on top of it.’

Will’s gaze was directed three inches above Tom’s head, transfixed by the dream of fame.

‘And you, Will, shall be presiding at Westminster Hall, the laws of England in your keeping. You will be Justice personified, a wise counsel and far-sighted legislator. You will right your father’s wrongs, and make the Law a humane institution.’

‘Ah, my father! You’re not the only one with something to live down…’

Will’s shoulders tensed spontaneously as if the very thought was a weight on him.

‘… But you must introduce me to your extraordinary landlady.’

The two of them strode towards the bar, where Widow Trotter was beaming in anticipation, though her mind was momentarily distracted – Elias had slipped outside. But her attention was at once fixed on the two young men who now stood facing her, side by side. They were an attractive, though very distinct pair. Will was tall and slender, with longish light brown hair and what she could only think of as a mercurial countenance, alert and quick-eyed; beside him Tom was darker, rather more stocky and determined looking, with a saturnine face that suddenly unlocked itself in a bright smile. For the briefest instant, placed together like this, they struck her as a diptych of temperaments, each asking to be weighed with the other.

Tom made the introduction.

‘Mrs T – This is my good friend William Lundy, Esquire, of the Middle Temple.’

The formality was quickly dispensed with as her nod returned his. She hesitated.

‘I take it you have hopeful news, Mr Lundy? But perhaps I shouldn’t congratulate Mr Bristowe just yet?’

‘Not yet, Mrs Trotter; but Tom’s star is distinctly rising. After all, he has now left Grub Street and installed himself in Covent Garden – exchanged a lonely garret for Good Fellowship and more salubrious quarters. Unless of course you’ve hidden him in the attic among the rafters?’

‘He is exactly where he belongs, Mr Lundy – deep in the cellars with the coal and the stores. I only allow him out for meals, when he has to adjust his eyes to the light.’

‘Perfect for his subterranean muse!’

Before the tone descended further into burlesque, she shifted the topic.

‘And what about you, Mr Lundy? I take it you lodge in the Temple? A pretty wild place by many accounts.’

‘Hundreds of young men with little to occupy them, Mrs Trotter, and sadly lacking those civilising touches that only the ladies can give.’

‘He means that it’s much like Oxford, but with even more distractions – and no Proctors patrolling the taverns. He insists that he visits Covent Garden in order to be civilised. But you mustn’t tell his father that!’

‘I was going to ask, Mr Lundy. You are studying the Law – are you perhaps… ?

‘The answer is yes, Mrs Trotter, I confess. Hemp is my father. He is determined that I enter the profession, and as long as he maintains my allowance I’m happy to accommodate him. Though it’s hard having a name that is not wholly your own, either to make or mar.’

Although the word ‘notorious’ would be an exaggeration, Mr Justice Oliver Lundy had a formidable reputation. At the Old Bailey sessions, ‘Hemp’ Lundy (a tribute to his affection for the rope) made many a jury quail and many an accused grow visibly pale. House-breakers and light-fingered Drury Lane whores especially could expect no quarter. Will was only too ready to change to a more comfortable topic – though not perhaps for his friend.

‘Tom’s father, on the other hand, is admirably indulgent, letting his son loose in London with no profession at all. Just the harmless pastime of poetry. He invokes the Muse, and she comes at his call. No hard books to pore over, no endless note-taking in Westminster Hall, no threat of the attorney’s office hanging over him. Instead he sits and dreams in elegant couplets, exercising his fancy rather than his judgment – I, however…’

‘… have more than enough imagination for both of us, Will – and an unstoppable lawyer’s tongue! Can you hear him, Mrs T? This fellow has it in his naturals. If he doesn’t entangle you in his flow of words then he’ll trap you in your own. Believe me, Westminster Hall is Will’s natural home, and he knows it. And for all his moaning he longs to make a figure there some day.’

Widow Trotter could well imagine it. Will must look very fine in a gown, although the hair would have to curb its enthusiasm under a periwig.

‘And what is Mr Bristowe’s world, Mr Lundy? It seems to be a more uncertain one.’

‘No no, Mrs Trotter, far less so, indeed. You see, the Church is waiting…’

At once Will’s features became composed and his voice took on a mock sonorousness.

‘… but the young man does not heed the call. At this time when the Church is in danger, and he might become such an ornament to it, he resists the summons…’

She could easily understand it. Tom Bristowe did not strike her as someone who would be content with being ornamental to anything.

‘… But he can only hold out for a few more months, and then it will claim him. He will measure himself for the cloth. Dr Bristowe, Prebend of Winchester, will insist.’

‘I’ve promised my father, Mrs T. I have a year to prove myself in the literary world, or else it’s the Church. Six months have already elapsed.’

This was said without animation, indeed with a glumness that brought their conversation to an uncomfortable halt. Neither young man seemed to have anything more to say. Widow Trotter beckoned them to sit down and signalled to Peter Simco, who marched up brightly.

‘Sweet chocolate for the two gentlemen, Peter. And buttered toast with nutmeg and sugar. They both have something to celebrate!’

Her tone was cheery, but her mind misgave her. The Watch had evidently settled their little matter. But to what result? She glanced out of the window, not with any purpose but in the knowledge that the answer was certainly outside.

The matter had indeed been resolved briskly. In less than two minutes after he left the coffee house, having turned left in the paved court and emerged from under the arch into the busy thoroughfare of Drury Lane, John Morphew, with his coat wrapped tightly around him and his wallet heavy, had found himself confronted by two stout men of the Watch, who blocked his path, spoke roughly, and reached out to him. As he turned instinctively, the solid hand of Elias Cobb stopped him in his tracks. The publisher slipped slightly on the icy ground, and as his body swayed he found himself helped with disconcerting suddenness and ease into a hackney coach that stood but a yard away. The door clapped, and without a word the vehicle moved off instantly, swinging on its loose springs with the four occupants pressed up against each other, their wintry breath shrouding them.

In the warmth of the coffee house, the toast and chocolate had done their work. Tom and Will were relaxing and talking about poetry, and specifically about satire. Tom remembered the papers he’d been reading earlier – they were something Will would appreciate. Two such different little poems: one elegant and polite, written with good-humoured irony, and the other something savage and bitter – and in these times potentially seditious, to be passed around only with extreme care. He needed to read more of the thing. But as he reached down into his pocket, there was nothing there. His hand found only the empty lining.

Chapter Two

*

‘This is not an arrest, Mr Morphew, merely an invitation – though I regret it has lacked the usual proprieties. However, Elias Cobb has a very polite way with him, and we like to employ him for any business that requires some delicacy. He is surprisingly lettered, with none of the sourness of an ill education. I hope your journey here was not too distressing?’

The publisher wondered if he ought to thank this pompous fellow for arranging it all so thoughtfully. One thing he was oddly grateful for: to know how it might feel to be a pressed sailor or a kidnapped servant suddenly snatched away from everything familiar. But the man’s geniality was far from reassuring: it made him feel mocked and excluded even as he was being soothed. They were both seated, although his own chair had been placed a demeaning distance away as if to make him more available for scrutiny.

‘We wish simply to have a conversation with you, to hear your thoughts and find what way they are tending. We would hope perhaps to offer something that will be of benefit to you – and to us.’

‘To be bundled by force into a hackney-coach is not a good beginning.’

‘Again, I apologise, Mr Morphew, but I hope you’ll understand that to announce myself at your shop would broadcast something you may wish to keep to yourself. Any public encounter would create gossip and might damage your reputation.’

‘I hope my reputation is in my own hands, Sir.’

‘I can assure you it is. We must see that it remains unsullied.’

The irony was hard to gauge. He was annoyed by the man’s cuffs which twitched unnecessarily. They flapped again as he reached for a file of papers on the desk beside him and began leafing through them in silence. At once the easy sociability was suspended, and the man’s concentration was intense. His head was lowered and the finely-brushed wig hung down in lavish curls either side of his chest. With a slight grunt he began reading quietly to himself.

John Morphew tried to think quickly. Beyond a door in the far wall he detected a hum of conversation but could make nothing of it. He knew he was in Westminster, just off Whitehall, and had been delivered to a modest side-door in an alley that issued out into St James’s Park. It was not his usual part of town. But this was clearly a government building and he had been ushered into an untidy wainscoted office. A wall of shelves was occupied by ledgers, boxes, and groups of hide-bound volumes which from his seat he could not identify. He had not been arrested, but all this suggested he was someone of interest to the Ministry. Was he facing a threat, or an offer? Possibly both. It was obvious that the interview had a purpose and he would be expected to play his part.

The man lifted his head and the scene resumed as if there had been no interval. But the mood seemed different.

‘You are in large part – I don’t speak disrespectfully – a ‘jobbing’ printer. You print to order, take commissions irrespective of party.’

‘I have also begun to commission work myself.’

‘Indeed you have, Mr Morphew. To state things briskly: the line is sometimes hard to draw between what you are paid to print and what you choose to print…’

The conversation was progressing with unsettling haste and the tone was becoming more firm and direct. The man drove on with his point.

‘… Nevertheless, although the intellectual property may be another’s, by setting your name to it you are publicly responsible. It is an obvious point that I don’t need to labour.’

The man smiled disconcertingly. If this was a threat, it was being politely made.

‘Of course – but you must know that if I enable others to speak, I do so without prejudice.’

‘No prejudice, I grant, but… a predilection is very clear…’

The word came after a slight pause; it was savoured, as if some hidden vice were being exposed. There was a further pause for effect, and then the thrust.

‘… You are Harley’s man.’

‘I am the Queen’s man, Sir.’

‘Ah, of course – as are we all, Mr Morphew!… But I am wondering if you equate the two. Do you consider Mr Harley’s enemies to be Her Majesty’s enemies?’

‘I hope I steer a middle way between extremes, avoiding the malice of both parties.’

His questioner threw himself back in his chair, and fought to suppress a laugh.

‘Ha! You speak like Harley’s puppet – that is his very own jargon! You have been reading too much of Mr Defoe’s Review, Sir – in a moment I shall hear you talk of the Golden Mean of Peace and Moderation…’

He recollected himself, and at once softened his tone.

‘… Forgive me, Mr Morphew, I do not mean to mock – a man has a right to a political opinion. But we are becoming concerned. What issues from your shop betrays more than moderation. It hints at something dangerous.’

The picture was rapidly clarifying. He was evidently being courted. In a rough way no doubt, but courted nonetheless. His services were being sought. There was an element of bluster in the man’s responses, perhaps designed to draw him out; but it suggested he would at some point be made an offer. How choppy the sea would become before he was thrown the cork was impossible to say.

‘You say you are the Queen’s man, Mr Morphew. And indeed you celebrate the Queen with genuine fervour.’

He lifted up a printed half-sheet, which he held suspiciously at his fingers’ ends.

‘It seems you worship a sacred Monarchy. You speak of Her Majesty as a dazzling goddess who drives her golden chariot across the sky, eclipsing all human achievement: Majestic Anne, in Glory’s chariot drove… This is quite a performance.’

‘The poem on the Queen’s Birthday is not mine, Sir.’

‘It is yours Sir. It is anonymous. It comes from your presses. It is sold by you. It is subscribed with your name.’

His voice took on a formal, distinctly mocking tone:

‘When dazzling Phoebus gilds the hemisphere,

Each fainter light submits, its Rule foregoes,

Nor dares its bright antagonist oppose…

– This is a glorious vision in which all opposition is suppressed. What a painterly picture! Why, it is veritably… baroque!…’

The man spoke the French word with obvious distaste.

‘… It is worthy of a ceiling at Versailles! Is this the monarch you wish for? A divinely-appointed tyrant lording it over the earth? A Sun Queen to match the Sun King?’

‘It is a celebratory poem. There is poetic licence in panegyric.’

‘But this is popular stuff. A halfpenny half-sheet hawked about the streets.’

‘They were printed months ago, lame verses at best – merely ephemeral. They had their moment, and no revolution in the nation’s affairs has come about.’

‘But they are part of a drip, drip of ideas, Mr Morphew. You claim such innocence; but you and I know what you are about. You are serving Mr Harley’s ends. He attacks the rage of party, but only in the hope of forming a party of his own. He uses his newsmen, pamphleteers, spies – and poets – to attack Whig and Tory alike, merely to wind himself into the Queen’s favour. The man is ruthlessly ambitious. I am telling you nothing you cannot see with your own eyes.’

‘You speak like a politician yourself, Sir. Are you a party man? I think you are.’

‘At this moment no-one is above party, Mr Morphew. We must simply be honest and direct.’

‘You are making a great deal out of a few hobbling verses.’

‘Well let us see where they hobble next!’

He lifted the sheet to his face and continued to read aloud.

‘Across the globe shall ANNA spread her beams,

Obscuring modern, past, or future themes.

The greatest hero shall resign his claim,

And Marlborough’s self stoop to his mistress’ name.

They are wretched lines, but the point is clear. Our great Marlborough must be humbled. The victor of Blenheim and Ramillies is to be put in his place! You drive a wedge between the Queen and the Duke, exalt one to belittle the other. Once again I hear Mr Harley’s voice. The puppet squeaks with the voice of his master… Do you wish the war to end, Mr Morphew? Are you content to let the French have Spain, leave Holland vulnerable, and let our trade – the lifeblood of the nation – drain away? Are you one of Harley’s peacemakers?’

‘I would endeavour, Sir, to keep the unity of the spirit in the bond of peace. I recognise your own Whiggish phrases – the words of strife and dissension. I hear a voice behind yours: Lord Sunderland’s is it not?

The man was disconcerted, but only for a moment.

‘I have to admire you, Mr Morphew. You have brought us to the kernel of the business sooner than I expected. Your composure is admirable – though I must take care not to flatter you.’

‘I would not welcome it, Sir. But perhaps you will allow me to ask where I am, who you are, and what you want from me? I take it I am not about to be charged with sedition and dragged off to Newgate?’

‘Certainly not. I apologise for having omitted the initial courtesy of introducing myself. I am Thomas Hopkins, Secretary to the Earl of Sunderland. Your surmise was correct. From this I take it you have not visited the Cockpit before?’

‘No, I’ve not had that privilege. Am I here at the behest of the Secretary of State himself?’

‘Lord Sunderland has indeed interested himself in you. His fellow Secretary of State is already your protector, I think?’

‘Mr Harley is not my keeper – though he is a man I admire. I may have printed some pieces from that source, but I am not Harley’s man. This dissension between the Earl and Mr Harley is deplorable – the endless plotting and counter-plotting can only comfort the nation’s enemies. But you already know my views I think, and my comings and goings too. You were evidently expecting me at the Good Fellowship Coffee House this morning. I take it you have a friend in my shop to keep you informed?’

Under-Secretary Hopkins swung his hands onto his lap and smiled.

‘There are many people with whom we have channels of communication, Mr Morphew. Yes, your pressman John Emmet is one of our links among the booksellers. He told us you were going to take delivery of a new satire this morning, and such a thing is naturally of interest to us. Any ambitious satire, especially by someone unfamiliar to us, awakens our curiosity. We like to know what is in the air – before it becomes substantial.’

The publisher felt an angry blush rising. Emmet was his trusted confidant – or he had thought so. The implications were shocking and he was unsettled by the casualness – as if being a spy were the most natural thing. Here was a man who evidently took all this in his stride.

‘Is John Emmet in your pay? I know there are informers everywhere, but do you keep watch on a mere jobbing printer? Can no-one be trusted now?’

‘It’s not a case of trust, Mr Morphew. In the current climate we can only repose trust in what we know – and it is the duty of government to know as much as possible. Our enemy is secrecy, not openness. The word spy is quite wrong. We need to know of anything that might unsettle the public mood or encourage disaffection and despondency. It is our responsibility.’

‘And so… private letters are opened, conversations reported, rumours set going, false news mixed with true. The Ministry foments the deception. It is public honesty that suffers.’

‘Have a care, Mr Morphew. I can see you are becoming heated.’

‘No Sir, I simply wonder at your assurance. You people are on guard against satire, and yet you delight in fictions and satires in your turn – so long as they serve your ends.’

‘But satire also exposes vice to ridicule, with sharpened pen to scourge the offending age… But please, Mr Morphew, let us leave such sparring to the coffee-house wits, who will endlessly debate but never settle the issue.’

Thomas Hopkins seemed very much at ease, as if refreshed by the skirmish of words, and he now leaned forwards with an amused gaze. The man really was an extraordinary performer.

‘It may interest you to know, Sir, that your satire is being honoured with a reading at this very moment, in the next room – by my fellow Under-Secretary. It is, after all, distinctly his province. Mr Addison’s judgment weighs more than anyone’s in literary matters.’

The publisher’s blush was suddenly returning at the thought of such distinguished critical scrutiny. If young Tom Bristowe only knew what eyes were scanning his verses at this moment!

‘Mr Addison hopes that you might remain in touch with us. At this critical time in public affairs we would wish to be alerted to anything that might be about to cause a stir. I appreciate you are a man of principle. We are not wishing to buy you, Mr Morphew, but we want to remain friends and perhaps put some business your way. There is an offer Mr Addison would like to make which would do distinct honour to your reputation.’

The publisher was stumbling to reply. He had no sense of what was coming his way. If the interview was intended to disorient him, it had succeeded.

And at that moment, as if a stage drama were unfolding precisely as rehearsed, the far door opened tentatively and another man half-entered the room. It was a face he recognised. It was pale, and the mouth was slightly discomposed. Mr Under-Secretary Addison stood at the threshold, consciously not stepping into the room. Thomas Hopkins rose and went over to his colleague and there was a hushed exchange. He could not make out the words, or whether they concerned himself, but both men looked alarmed. The atmosphere was tense.

After a short interval Addison withdrew, and the moment the door closed Hopkins rounded on the publisher. His look was one of controlled anger.

‘It seems, Mr Morphew, that you may after all be spending the night in Newgate!’

The publisher choked momentarily and suddenly felt how dry his mouth was. Something very bad was happening. He looked round instinctively for an escape route, but the door behind the desk swung open again and Elias Cobb strode in. For the first time Morphew noticed a pistol tucked into the constable’s belt. He half rose from his chair, but relapsed back as Elias’s solid frame moved towards him. Hopkins spoke brusquely:

‘You must be questioned further, and this time with no pretence of politeness. You will have to explain yourself, and if you do not satisfy us fully then you will be put in the strong-room while we decide what to do with you.’

‘But this is outrageous…’

‘Save your protests. You are in a dangerous situation, so weigh your words carefully. If we do not have the complete truth from you, we shall have no compunction in using the full rigour of the law – and that will crush you!’

Hopkins turned to Elias.

‘You will need to remain here, Mr Cobb – and not only for the sake of your pistol. I think you may be able to help clarify matters. Please draw up that other chair for Mr Addison.’

The constable went over to a large oak armchair and lifted it like a wicker basket.

‘You are not a magistrate, and this is not a court. I have every right to remain silent.’

‘I did not take you for a fool, Morphew. Saying nothing will merely implicate you…’

He fixed the publisher with a look directly between the eyes.

‘… I don’t think you realise the credit we are giving you. The situation is serious, and Mr Addison and I will have to take you into our confidence. There may be no other way.’

Once again things were realigning themselves strangely. He thought it better to say nothing until he understood what was going forward. Elias Cobb brought up a small table alongside the second chair, and then stationed himself by the door. Hopkins had left the room and Morphew remained alone with the constable, both of them still and silent, not meeting each other’s eye. The awkwardness was palpable.

After a long ten minutes Hopkins returned with a thunderous look on his face, accompanied by his distinguished colleague. Joseph Addison was the slighter figure and seemed apprehensive as he placed a bundle of papers on the table. The two men settled into the chairs and adjusted their wigs. It was an oddly formal procedure, almost an improvised board of inquiry, and it occurred to him that Lord Sunderland’s two Under Secretaries must have constituted themselves like this on other occasions. But there was no-one taking minutes.

He was expecting Addison to take the lead and found himself staring at the great man of letters as he raised a delicate pair of spectacles to his eyes and peered at one of the pages. It was an intimate close-up. Could this really be the poet of The Campaign – that rousing celebration of Marlborough’s triumphs? In imagination Addison could capture the heroic slaughter of Blenheim, but here he looked fastidious and vulnerable. His full, light brown wig touched his left temple, and there was a slight hectic on the cheek.

But it was Hopkins who spoke.

‘This morning, Morphew, you entered the Good Fellowship Coffee House at near a quarter before ten. What were your movements earlier?’

‘I walked there direct from my lodgings, some twenty minutes.’

‘You live in Salisbury Court, off Fleet Street?’

Morphew took this as a statement, and merely smiled to himself.

‘You did not visit your premises by Stationers’ Hall?’

‘No, that would have been out of my way. I walked straight from home and did not make any other call.’

‘So, at the coffee house, by prior arrangement, you met a Mr Bristowe, and there you collected some manuscripts from him…’

Hopkins looked round at the constable.

‘… You can confirm that this transaction took place, Mr Cobb?’

‘I can, Sir. He arrived with a Mr Lundy, a young friend of Mr Bristowe’s. The pair talked with Mr Morphew for some little time before the material was handed over.’

Hopkins turned back to the publisher.

‘What exactly did Mr Bristowe give you?’

‘A poem – some ten or a dozen handwritten sheets. The one you’ve been reading. I’m afraid I have not yet been able to examine it.’

Addison glanced at his colleague.

‘To which poem are you referring, Mr Morphew?’

‘I don’t understand. I allude to the imitation of Juvenal’s Thirteenth Satire. It is entitled Crime and Punishment.’

‘But what of the second poem? Was this from the same source? Or was it already in your possession?’

‘Is there a second poem? I was expecting only one. Nothing else was mentioned to me. Perhaps Mr Bristowe handed it to me in error? As I said, I’ve been given no chance to overlook the papers.’

Hopkins broke in impatiently.

‘Your wallet has been emptied, Morphew, and besides the Juvenal we retrieved a private letter – a most feeling letter, I might say – various bills and memorandums, a short inventory… and a further most unpleasant item: a copy of verses of the most disgusting and treasonous character – a poem that belongs amongst the piss and dirt of the gutter – from where you may have retrieved it?’

‘I don’t know the piece to which you refer.’

‘Come, come, you’ve been found out. You are evidently in the market for sedition.’

‘You speak in riddles. I know nothing of it.’

‘This guileless innocence will convince no-one. You’ve set your name to some inglorious sweepings in the past, but we are now wondering how many anonymous scraps have come from your shop…’

‘But this is—’

‘Scurrilous things, dropped in alleyways, stuck on bog-house walls, hawked by boot-blacks and slipshod prentices…’

‘This is fantasy—’

‘This is not fantasy, Morphew – this is pen and ink!’

Hopkins seized the thin sheet of paper and shook it.

‘You were scurrying home to your shop with this, and by tomorrow a new seditious libel would have been on the streets – and with no trail back to your press. A few dozen copies run off overnight, ready to do their work on the morrow. In this case the sedition is indistinguishable from treason!’

He struck the paper with the back of his hand. In the pause that followed, the word reverberated like an alarm bell. Morphew broke the silence.

‘Show me the paper.’

Addison looked nervous, but Hopkins, who was rapidly overheating, immediately thrust it at him. The publisher saw its import at once and noted the opening invocation.

‘Ah H—s!’

Morphew looked up at his interrogator, who responded darkly.

‘Yes indeed. Two syllables. One name.’

Hopkins’s outrage could now be explained. The publisher looked the piece over. The words were almost cut into the paper, little incisions of hatred. Yet at one point he struggled to hold back a smile as he read:

A hackney Crew who trade on War’s alarms,

And build their Mansions as they scant our Arms.

Queen Anne was also mentioned – not in a derogatory way, but her majesty was tarnished by the poem’s distinctly unwholesome air.

‘I have to say I’ve not seen this before, nor do I recognise the hand… But Bufo…’

‘Bufo… the name is familiar to you?’

Hopkins leant forward eagerly. In response, the publisher hesitated, realising that this was a decisive step.

‘Yes… Two days ago John Emmet showed me a printed handbill subscribed with that name. Strong, accusatory rhymes much like this – it was a caricatura of the Duchess of Marlborough, alluding to her power over the Queen and her ambition of bringing in the Whigs.’

‘And where did Mr Emmet lay his hands on this handbill?’

‘He told me he found it dropped outside my shop.’

‘Dropped? And so he simply picked it up and brought it in to show you?’

Hopkins and Addison exchanged a meaningful look.

‘I saw it in his possession and enquired about it.’

‘This really is an odd coincidence, Morphew…’

Hopkins’s voice took on an ironic tone.

‘… In recent days Bufo’s trashy libels have twice found their way to you – and entirely by accident.’

‘I see the import of your questions. But if you think I’m responsible for printing the handbill, then ask John Emmet. He knows of everything my presses produce.’

‘But such a little thing could be secretly composed and run off within the hour by a practised hand – a few dozen copies merely – just enough to scatter around and set rumours and speculation going.’

‘But why would I risk such a thing?’

‘No doubt you would be well recompensed by Harley – a valuable supplement to your official work.’

‘But ask John Emmet. He and I discuss everything. He would have told you of anything suspicious – he was evidently overlooking me and my business.’

Once again Hopkins and Addison exchanged glances.

‘Indeed so. In fact, Mr Emmet brought that very handbill to us yesterday. That was when we learned of your interest in Mr Bristowe’s satire.’

This was worse and worse. Had Emmet made some accusation against him? And if so, for what motive? Morphew’s anger, hitherto reined back, was tugging at him. Thanks to Emmet he had been kidnapped and brought in for questioning, and was now in danger of being accused of sedition – or something worse. The dark stink of Newgate was coming nearer by the moment. But it was all so flimsy and circumstantial – mere accident and coincidence.

Hopkins had settled back in his chair. Addison took up the questioning, but in a different tone.

‘What do you know of Bufo, Mr Morphew?’

‘I know nothing beyond some gossip I’ve heard – that a street-hawker on Ludgate Hill has been arrested for selling a two-penny pamphlet attack on the Whigs – Bufo’s Magic Glass. And before you ask, I have not seen it. Only the title-page. It was arousing curiosity.’

‘That was no doubt the intention, Mr Morphew… It is a mock-prophecy of the most treasonous character reflecting on the state of the nation – a vile piece of Tory propaganda against Lord Sunderland and his friends. On Tuesday we were able to seize a bundle of copies before they could be circulated. How many were printed we do not know. Where did you hear this gossip about the hawker?’

‘In a tavern nearby – the Cross Keys.’

‘You did not see a copy being handed round?’

‘No, I did not. Only the hawker’s hat. It was being exhibited to much glee. The title-page was stuck upon it. People were speculating on what the pamphlet might contain.’

Hopkins intervened:

‘You paint a ludicrous picture. But what you say is reassuring. It seems that very few, if any, copies have escaped our net. I take it you will instantly deny being involved in its printing?’

‘I know nothing of it, or its contents.’

‘It is a disgraceful defamation of Her Majesty’s advisers, especially those with